


The Storm

by LadyStrangeandUnusual (Dream_Wreaver)



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Ambiguous Age, Consensual Sex, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 05:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20421002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Wreaver/pseuds/LadyStrangeandUnusual
Summary: There was one rule that the living in Winter River followed, the dead were not to be provoked during a storm.





	The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This took way too long to write. But it was worth it. Hope you enjoy

The sights and sounds of a storm in New England were often a wonder to behold. It stirred something ancient, something primal. Of course the land itself was old, as it was all across the country. But for a lot of people, there was something different about New England in particular. Maybe because it was the site of so much foundational history to who the nation had become. And a storm in New England, an autumnal storm where the dry leaves crackled in the wind before being flooded with water, where the earth smelled like petrichor and magic, where the darkness swept in the the clouds and could either disappear in the blink of an eye or rage until those less brave or foolish ran for cover? There was a certain kind of magic all of its own.

But the magic ran deeper still, in places where the boundaries of the world seemed too thin. To open into others which existed surely as the moon and stars hung in the sky. Hidden glades in the forests; places of life, death, and reclamation. Places that were abandoned by the living, but haunted by death. The Winter River Cemetery was perhaps one of the oldest in the entirety of the state, since the town boasted being colonized in the late 1600s. So many graves, ancient and new, dotted the landscape. To enter the cemetery was to enter another world entirely. And most people couldn’t understand what they felt when they passed through the gate, only a sense of eerie calm and expectation. As though they knew they were guests in someone else’s home, but knew not the rules of etiquette to proceed. But unless there was a funeral going on, there was one rule that the living in Winter River followed, the dead were not to be provoked during a storm.

And yet, that was exactly what one person was doing. Wrapped in a heavy and out of place cloak with its hood pulled low over their head. They entered the cemetery by slipping through the rusty gate. The groundskeeper was safely sequestered in his own little building on the outskirts of the necropolis, and given how the gloom settled in it wasn’t a wonder he missed the spectral figure softly gliding inside, like a lost soul finally returning home. The rain came in ceaseless torrents, the thunder rumbled low as it chased a brief flash of lightning that touched down somewhere in the distance. Among the headstones the figure wandered, but they were not lost. She knew it would be here somewhere, _ he _ would be here somewhere. Yes, she knew it was foolhardy, and stupid, and selfish. To feel desire for a monster, but hers was a mentality none of those around her would be able to understand. The ring, _ his _ ring, his brand seared around her finger. Was it so wrong for her to want affection, companionship from the one who’d put it there? He had gone, but he hadn’t left. Much like she had imagined with her mother, Lydia could feel him all around her. His eyes, myriad and hellish, watching her every move. Perhaps she was going crazy, perhaps this was all in her head, perhaps he was simply playing mind games just to fuck with her. Or perhaps, perhaps he was reaching out once more.

Lydia’s achingly mortal heart beat frantically in her chest. It was late, she had snuck out of the house. Out from under the watchful eyes of her guardians. They cared about her, they only wanted to help, only wanted what was best for her. Those were their claims, but how could they understand the thoughts that ran through her mind in her vulnerable sleep. The happiness he’d felt at her deception, moreso convinced that she loved him rather than she had seen she should hold up her end of the bargain. His ecstasy that she’d had a change of _ heart _ , not a change of mind. Lydia had wondered in the intervening months if she had murdered him solely because she thought she had no other choice. She knew it had been a lie. Just as easily, she knew she could have said his name thrice more and he would have been put back; invisible to everyone except her and the Maitlands. Lydia could have left him to sulk on the roof, to vanish as he pleased. But she had wanted to see his eyes light up at her false confession. To test and see if what she had thought she had seen from him was real. He might have claimed to only want her for his freedom, but Lydia knew the truth. What her husband had wanted wasn’t so simple as freedom, it was as simple as wanting _ her_. And so, he’d found a way to justify taking her. Even when he’d let her go, he still took possession of her -though in a way that she doubted he ever intended. Everything about who he was; disgusting, vile, perverted, and juvenile, it spoke to a yawning ache she’d felt in her soul. An ache left by the departure of her mother. But a husband was not a surrogate for a maternal presence, it was his sort of singular oddity that was very reminiscent. He was strange, unusual, just plain _ weird_. And Lydia loved it, every terrifying, heart pounding minute of it.

Lydia knew not where her feet took her. She had no rhyme or reason for the direction she took. Only listening to that preternatural perception. Somewhere around here, she knew that she would find a sign. A sign that lead to him. She had to see this through, no matter what her loved ones would think. By the time they found out, Lydia knew it would be too late. There was another flash of lightning somewhere to Lydia’s right and as she turned she thought she saw it. A flash illuminating the inscription on an otherwise dark and nameless headstone. Emily Deetz. Which was impossible, improbable at the very least. Lydia knew that her mother was still buried back in New York, with all the rest of her relatives. And the odds of there being another Emily Deetz in this graveyard of all places were slim to none. Even still, Lydia crept closer to the tombstone, feeling out the inscription with her fingers. The natures of the carvings gave away the ruse. Whoever this was buried beneath her feet, their name was not Emily. Again the lightning flashed, in another direction as thunder nipped at its heels. The storm seemed to pick up, and the wind pushed the incoming droplets sideways, drenching her cloak and causing her blood to chill.

In the brief moments where electricity parted the sky and allowed her a small moment of sight, Lydia could see her mother’s name, bouncing off monuments and headstones. Almost like a trail. Almost like an indication to follow. So she did, walking on until the very edge of the necropolis, where she saw it. A singular headstone facing the path. With her mother’s name, etched plain as into its surface. For a moment, Lydia was lost, where else could she look. But as she turned, she realized where she had been invited. An old, abandoned crypt hidden beneath an enormous weeping willow. One so old that the name of its occupants had been worn away by the passage of time. Lydia hurriedly climbed the small set of stairs and pulled at the ancient brass ring. The door moved in its frame but would not open. No, she knew she couldn’t give up now. He wouldn’t have sent her on a fruitless quest, she knew it in her heart that he wouldn’t do that to her. She was in the right place, this was but another test. And one she would not disappoint in, neither herself nor her spouse. But how could she get in? Looking for help she returned to the other grave. Her mother’s name was gone, vanished as though it had never been at all. In its stead was a different inscription. A poem, a chant, a summons. Her eyes hurried over the words and she mouthed them; once, twice. By the third time she dared to whisper it, the words honeyed and sweet, melting like sugar on her tongue. But they were incomplete. Unfinished, unspoken. Lydia knew what came next.

With a deep breath, she said it once. The thunder and lightning sounded simultaneously, temporarily drawing Lydia’s attention. She said it twice, the light turned red as it struck the ground near her feet, and the wind picked up its biting chill, causing her to draw further into the soaked fabric’s folds even as her hood was knocked away. Her heart was pounding, but at this point Lydia didn’t know if it was from fear or anticipation, or perhaps an intoxicating mixture of the two. Power, _ his _ power, rested on her tongue. The pounding of her pulse throbbed within her ears, hypnotizing her all its own. Having snuck liquor from her father more than once Lydia knew what it was like to be drunk. The heady sensation of disconnect that made your blood sing. In a way, this was a lot like that, the sensation felt familiar, but entirely new. With a single stuttered breath to brace herself, Lydia spoke once more,

_ “Beetlejuice,” _

For a demon that was predominantly about showmanship, she expected perhaps more of a spectacle when she finally set him free. The ground to rip apart, torn asunder by the breaking of the barrier between their worlds. For him to come crawling, filth-stained and vengeful out of the dirt, hands coated in soil and blood, eyes full of the hellfire of his birth, hair wild and messy and beastly. What she got instead was a single sound, almost imperceptible over the din of the rain. But one Lydia couldn’t mistake for anything else. The click of a latch, and the anguished groan of a heavy door as it moved on its rusted over hinges. Lydia whirled back to the crypt, where even from where she stood now she could see the dim flickering light stretch its feeble limbs out of the small open space of the door. An unspoken invitation, come in.

“Come into my web, said the spider to the fly,” Lydia murmured even as she did what she knew most would see as foolish.

It was only when she entered that she saw where the showmanship had gone. For the interior was not that of shelves of resting dead. It was more akin to a luxurious penthouse she would find back in New York City. Lots of comfortable looking furniture all done up in his signature stripes, black walls with white accenting, a panoramic view into what looked like a vast abyss of nothing at sunset, with only a thready line of asphalt that curved in ways no real road could as it zipped through the skyline. Clearly, she wasn’t in Kansas any more, but Lydia had never considered herself a worthwhile Dorothy anyways. Needless to say, this wasn’t Oz, nor was it Wonderland. Theoretically, it was more like the underworld of ancient times, rising to meet its Persephone. But her Hades was nowhere to be found.

Yet, as though thinking about him summoned him, there he was. Still in that striped and grimy suit. Still with the wild, unkempt, color changing hair. Still as good looking a dead guy as any she’d ever seen -though considering her basis for comparison was just him and Adam, that might have been a bit weighted in Beetlejuice’s favor. He looked torn between having expected her to be here and not quite believing she was. Something articulated by the gaping of his mouth, looking like he wanted to speak but not knowing exactly which words to say.

Eventually, he settled on something, coming out almost choked with hope and disbelief, “You came,”

Lydia shrugged, “You called,” she offered in response. At least, that was what she _ hoped _ was the case.

All those dreams, the replayings of their time together with different scenarios each time. The dreams that made no sense until she saw the black and white stripes in her vision. Eyes of hellfire sparked with a myriad of emotions, only one of them Lydia was certain she could name. The fear and anticipation as she recognized it as what she knew of desire, but knew not what drove it. The feeling of vulnerability as she recalled that even though this was a dream, even though she could change it, kick him out as she pleased, she _ willingly _ ceded control over to him. And the frustration of waking up yet again always dissatisfied and yearning for more. She may have won the battle, but she’d never expected a war.

Her voice felt weak, drained from the strength it had take to say those two words. Lydia waited for him to say something, anything. The enormity of this reality before her was too much. She had her hands over her mouth before she even realized what she was doing. And he noticed, her left hand folded over her right. What it showed off.

“You’re still wearing my ring,” they both knew it wasn’t magic. Lydia had been able to take it off that very night. And almost as immediately she’d put it back on. For reasons she hadn’t then been able to explain. Still lost for words Lydia merely nodded.

“You came here, wearing my ring, and said my name three times,” Beetlejuice seemed almost in awe. Perhaps it was because he was a man used to doing anything to get what he wanted, and this; this just seemed too easy. Much like it had when she’d come back from Hell wearing a wedding dress. And he was much more hesitant to be suckered in now than he was then.

Again, Lydia could say nothing, but indicated the correctness of his statement with an incline of her head.

“You know what this means don’t you?” it couldn’t be that easy. It simply _ couldn’t _ . He was dead, she was living. The parameters of their marriage had been for the sake of granting him life, and now he’d had it. But she was still here, still wearing his ring, still looking as cold, calculating, and cruel as she had the day she’d said ‘I do’. And he wanted it, all of it, all of _ her_.

But at his question Lydia seemed almost a little hesitant, casting her gaze to the side for a moment before returning her eyes to him with the unspoken question in them. Beetlejuice was many things, a lie, a cheat, a swindler and a con. But for whatever reason, when it came to Lydia, he couldn’t be anything but honest. Even lying to her that one time to put him in a position of control had been agonizing to do. He wouldn’t go through that again, never, not even if it meant losing her.

“It means, I’ll never let you go again. Not in life, not in death, not for anything or anyone. Is that what you want?” his countenance softened as he looked at her, standing there still in her drenched cloak. Shivering in the cold because she was so wonderfully, heartachingly alive and here she was in the land of the dead. Not for her mom, but for _ him_. But he would give it all up, give _ her _ up for a normal life, the life she deserved to have a chance to have, all she needed to do was say the word, “I need you to tell me now Lydia, do you want this?”

Her hands dropped to her sides beneath the cloak’s folds. Her eyes were wide and fathomless with their darkness. And he saw trepidation too, not that he could blame her. The responsibility was hers and hers alone, and she held the power to make of break the both of them by what she said next. Her mouth opened, lips parted, and he heard her breath hitch,

“I _ do_.”

If a death knell could ring with both finality and jubilation, that would be the sound that ring through his ears with the reverberation of her response. I do. She did, and would forevermore. Beetlejuice was many things, but altruistic was not one of them. He was certifiably selfish, and who was he to let go of someone who wanted to belong to him? Who he wanted to belong _ to _?

Now was perhaps not the time for words, but he had only two he wished to say, “It’s showtime,”

With a snap of his fingers she was in his arms and he did the thing he’d wanted to do since the moment she’d stabbed him in the back, literally. He bent down and kissed her, deeply. Curiosity had been the name of the game for the three days of them sequestered together in the house. It had been when his idle attraction had started, probably the reason why his clones had been so confused when he'd brought up marrying Lydia to them in the first place. But now that he had her? Well, desire was perhaps too weak a word to describe it. It was potent and all consuming and Beetlejuice himself was finally confronted with the depths of what had burbled up in the pit where his soul might be had he been human.

Though his hands had started by cupping her chin, it wasn’t long before they migrated down the column of her throat to her delicate shoulders, past her arms as her own extremities reached up to spear her fingers into his scalp and further muse his hair, and down to the thin curve of her waist. The enormity of irony hit him even as he preoccupied himself with all things Lydia. He was an ancient and immortal demon, the ability to kill with a snap of his fingers when properly unleashed, and even when not -a hellraiser indeed for the poor souls who shared the same plane of existence as him- was undone and owned completely by the fragile little mortal in front of him. Though, fragile was not entirely an accurate word to describe the vixen melting beneath his ministrations, it was a gross underestimation of what she was capable of doing. Though he didn’t feel pain, the spot in his sternum where she’d stabbed him throbbed with heat as he recalled how willing she had been to kill someone. The material of her cloak was sodden to the touch, and he wondered how he might be able to rid them of it without stopping to focus his concentration on doing magic. Because as it was now all he wanted to be caught up in was Lydia. But she saved him the trouble, hands dropping their death clutch at his head to fumble with the clasp. She let it go and between gravity and the weight of the water it carried in its fibres the garment dropped to the floor with a wet thud. Beetlejuice registered the sensation of other fabric at play beneath his hands, but it was forgotten in favor of the way Lydia clung to the lapels on his jacket, momentarily breaking their kiss so she could catch her breath. Oh yeah, breath, mortals needed to do that didn’t they? He moved to her neck, only barely taking the time to gaze on the mass of black fabric she wore. The benefit to no longer occupying her mouth was that now she was free to let loose breathy little sounds which further drove his desires to high fever pitch. Their feet moved, forward, back, until Lydia’s back hit the wall. Her fingers were speared in his hair, nails scraping at his scalp as he nibbled along the low neckline of her dress.

“Ah, Beetlejuice,” her voice was quiet, but it resonated loudly in the empty and otherwise silent space.

“Shh!” he hushed her, breaking from his ministrations long enough to really see the confection of black lace and silk she’d dressed herself in for him. Beautiful, but only because she made it so. And he was willing to bet it would look a helluva lot better on the floor, “Much as I’d love to hear the sound of you screaming my name, I’d rather this not be over _ too _ quickly, got that Lyds?”

She hissed out a response in conjunction with a nod, taking the opportunity he’d presented by pulling away to launch herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist as she pressed her back further against the wall. Her mouth latched onto his neck, licking and sucking with fervent ardor. The sensations were overwhelming for both of them. Lydia was dizzy from the sheer force of desire she felt towards him, this man, that she hadn’t felt for any other reasonably attractive male she’d yet encountered in her life. And Beetlejuice, he was driving himself crazy with the implications of Lydia’s ministrations on other parts of his body, compounded by the soft flesh he held in his hands as he stabilized her weight on his person. And what sweet, sweet flesh it was. Due to their height difference, Lydia was just scant inches above feeling just how much he wanted what was happening. With a little help from her and his magic, Beetlejuice pulled Lydia away from the wall, hushing her mouth with his own as one of his hands reached for the clasps on her dress.

“No,” Lydia gasped, pulling away to hiss in his ear, “Not here, bedroom,”

“Fine, but mark my words,” Beetlejuice growled lasciviously, “Before the night’s through I’ll have fucked you on every wall in the place,”

“But what about the ceilings?” Lydia questioned, batting her eyes innocently.

“Creative little minx, aren’t ya?”

Lydia flicked at his lips with her tongue, “You love it,” she told him.

“Damn straight I do,”

“Huh,” Lydia pursed her lips together, “And here I thought ‘straight’ would be the last word to describe you,”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Beetlejuice whispered hoarsely into her ear, letting her drop just an inch.

“I’m just saying,” Lydia parried, “You spent an awful lot of time hitting on Adam from what I heard,”

“Ever think I was doing that to try and keep from thinking about you?”

“Did you?”

“Would you believe whatever answer I gave you?”

“Probably not,” Lydia admitted, “And you’d probably say something stupid that would ruin the mood, so how about you just shut up, take me to a bed, and _ fuck _ me,”

He let out a low wolf whistle at her choice of language. Not that Lydia had ever been afraid to curse in his presence, which had done more to break down that reservation. Still, she mostly stuck to the relatively tame of the repertoire of foul language. So to hear her say fuck like that was plain _ hot _. And because of how nicely nasty she put her request, he was more than willing to acquiesce to her request. With barely more than a thought they were in another room. All heavy stones and gothic architecture, though no one’s focus was on the interior of the room other than the big coffin shaped bed. They tumbled down to its sheets and Beetlejuice caged in his bride. Lydia’s chest was heaving from arousal and exertion, pupils blown wide as she gazed up with him with a sort of innocent hunger. Innocence…

“Wait, Lydia,” he paused, “This isn’t… I mean, am I your first?”

“Yes, and no,” Lydia admitted, now casting her gaze away shyly, “I mean,” she huffed, “Gods above this is gonna be so embarrassing…”

“Hey, I’m all for not talking and skipping straight to the good stuff but,” and here he was the one to hesitate, “Look, I already hurt you once. Betrayed your trust, and it’s the only time I’ve ever felt guilty about doing something like that. I just don’t wanna hurt you again if I can avoid it.”

The desire in her eyes receded for a moment, replaced with something that looked like warmth and affection. Naturally Beetlejuice was reluctant to believe that was what it was, he’d been fooled with love before, by Lydia herself no less. The dusky pink on her cheeks darkened considerably. She was so alive, and everything about her spoke of it. Life in a world of death and he was content to take it from her, live through her, so long as she was content to die through him.

Lydia took a deep breath in, and then sighed, “Look, this was… it wasn’t my proudest moment okay? For the longest time I feel like you’ve been… watching me, playing games with me and fucking with my head. I thought I could get back at you by ignoring the problem, ignoring these weird… _ feelings _ you stirred in me. I didn’t realize it was desire until later on, and I felt, wrong for feeling something like that for a bastard like you. I mean, you hurt the people I cared about, hurt _ me _ , and lied to me and extorted me into marrying you. But I wanted you anyways. I knew that if anyone found out they’d probably have me checked into a mental institution, so I never told anyone. I tried to be normal, if only in the sense that I was willing to have sex with someone who still had a pulse. I got hit on, I said yes, I had sex with him. But I felt… nothing. He just didn’t do it for me. So this is the first time I’m feeling like… like _ this_. I want you, Beetlejuice, can you feel it?”

“I get the feeling I’m about to,” he gave her a crooked, toothy grin. It was the sort of smile that should have been off putting when coupled with the rest of his appearance, but to Lydia he was perhaps the most unconventionally attractive man she’d ever seen, “Now…” he drawled lazily, as if he had all the time in the world. Which, considering he was dead, was technically right, “What should we do about this little thing?”

“I don’t care,” Lydia told him, “Rip it, tear it, burn it off of me if you want so long as it’s off.”

“Hmm…” he paused again, thinking, “Now burning it off you _ would _ be fun, but I don’t wanna risk marring that pretty little flesh of yours. So I think,” with a wrinkle of his nose her garment melted away like it was nothing but liquid, spilling off the sides of the bed and onto the floor with a persistent rhythm similar to the pounding of the storm they no longer heard.

Beetlejuice didn’t need to breathe, but he couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath when he saw what lay beneath that black gown his dead rose was wearing. Stripes. She was wearing stripes. _ His _ stripes, cupped around her body like a secret embrace. Her saucy little smile told him he was reacting in exactly she manner she’d hoped.

“God slash Satan above and below,” he hissed out, “The things you do to me kid. Do you have _ any _ idea?”

“Hmm,” Lydia snuck a hand down to cup him, “I think I have a pretty good idea,”

He snorted, “Pretty good she says. Darlin’ there’s nothing _ good _ about me.”

“Fair enough,” she allowed, “Then I think I have a pretty _ big _ idea instead,”

“That’s more like it,”

“No,” she corrected, “What would be more like it,” and here her other hand took hold of his tie and tugged his face down to meet hers, “Was if you rid yourself of these bothersome clothes altogether. Do it, or I’ll send you back,”

“You wouldn’t,” but there was something glacial in the heat of her eyes that told him she would. So who was he to argue?

Apparently, increased lust made him clumsy. Because despite the fact that he’d used magic to divest Lydia of her cumbersome clothing, he didn’t think to do the same for himself. His jacket was the easiest thing to toss to the side, loosening his tie as her nimble but shaking fingers attacked the buttons on his shirt. His skin was chilled where hers was feverish, leaving burning trails in its wake as her hands swept over his bared shoulders, pushing the shirt from his frame. Despite his ego, Beetlejuice would admit he wasn’t as good looking as some of the other men he’d encountered in his long, long eternity of nonexistence. But the hitch of her breath as she took him in -in one sense of the phrase- was worth it. She wanted _ him_. Their hands reached for his belt at the same time, which might have been humorous if they weren’t so desperate to continue. When they finally, _ finally _ got his clothes off they remembered they still had Lydia’s lingerie to contend with. Beetlejuice didn’t want to destroy it, because the sight of Lydia in his stripes would always be a turn on, but he was getting impatient. A simple snap of his fingers left them folded in a nice little pile on the floor and suddenly it occurred to them that this was really happening.

Lydia tensed before she could help herself, remembering how she’d failed to feel anything that first time. It hadn’t hurt nearly as bad as it could have, but she’d felt nothing. Nothing except complete detachment and the desire to be doing literally anything else. That wasn’t a problem with Beetlejuice, where she could feel her own desire pool hot and low in the pit of her stomach. But the memory caused an involuntary reaction, one only intensified when she caught sight of just how well endowed her unnatural groom was.

He couldn't help a smirk as he caught the scent of her slight fear, “Scared babes?” He asked with a cocky, cocked brow.

Lydia scoffed, “You wish,”

“Betcha I can get you to make that sound,” Beetlejuice teased, “That beautiful sound,”

“You'd have to be really good if you think you can get me to scream,”

“Well, before I do that, I need to getcha nice and relaxed don't I?”

“And how do you intend to do tha-ah!” Her question was cut off as he lowered his mouth to one of her breasts, suckling gently at a peak. His blunted, black painted nails scraped at the sides of her torso as they raised goosebumps in their wake.

“One thing you really need to know about me, babes,” Beetlejuice said conversationally as his tongue followed the path of his fingers, down to where the proof of her desire was wet and waiting, “Is that I’m not just known as a demon,”

“And what else are you known as?” Lydia asked, “Besides a rat bastard?”

“The ghost with the most,” he sent her one of his crooked smiles. Considering it was from down between her legs the position would have been comical in any other circumstance.

Lydia scoffed, “Ghost with the most ego, maybe.”

“And you’re about to feed it baby-doll,” he teased, placing a small bite to the inside of her thigh, “Good thing too, because I’m _ hungry_,” and with that he pressed his mouth against her, holding her hips steady with his hands. Lydia jerked sharply at the sensation of his tongue dipping around and inside of her, flicking at one of her most sensitive spots.

“Beetle-” Lydia attempted to speak, cut off when he would swipe his tongue in one direction or the other. With his hands firmly holding down her hips she was at the mercy of his rhythm and tempo. Her nails dug themselves into his hair as a sort of meaningless punishment. It wasn’t as though he could actually _ feel _ pain. Over and over again he drove his more freestanding muscle, outside along her outer lips, inside as far as he could reach, magically extending its length so he could reach further into her depths. If he was good at one thing, he was good at this. And it wasn’t long before she felt herself falling from that much fabled precipice into wondrous, happy oblivion.

Lydia returned to reality with a fuzzy head and shaking limbs. The first thing to be thrown back into sharp contrast was Beetlejuice’s smug grin.

“Have fun?” he asked, tone knowing. He was back to looming above her, looking at her like she was a piece of art, or meat. One or the other.

“I’m about to have more,” she put a dainty hand to his chest and pushed a little. Confused, but not unwilling to go along with whatever he wondered might be in her head he sat back on his haunches. Lydia sat up in turn and crawled towards him. She kissed him, tangling her tongue with his and savoring the taste of herself on his teeth, “Lay down,” she whispered in his ear, sending a finger down his spine.

Eager to please, Beetlejuice did as she said. And Lydia had to face all of him. But, the nerves melted away. Beetlejuice might have been a monster, but he was _ her _ monster and his lack of smart aleck lip and willingness to go along was doing wonders to allay her fears. No matter what she did, she had the feeling he’d enjoy it, because it was _ her _ doing it. And despite the fact that he was a pervert and a slut, he wouldn’t say anything unless it was likely to offer guidance on what he wanted _ from _ her. And she noticed, as he watched her watching him, his eyes were blown wide and his chest was heaving. He didn’t need to breathe, so she wondered if he even realized he was doing it. Lydia crawled over him, finding it a bit of a tighter fit due to their size difference.

“What’s a matter Beej?” Lydia whispered against his lips, “Feeling a little… _ anxious_?”

“More than a bit Lyds,” he parried, that crooked smile in full effect, “Wanna find out how much?”

“More than anything,” Lydia told him, “But first,” and she retreated, “I’m feeling a little… _ famished _ myself. Would you mind if I-”

“No!” he quickly and loudly interjected, perhaps a little _too_ loudly, “I mean… no. Whatever you wanna do to me babes, do it.”

“And if I want to leave you here?” Lydia cocked a brow.

“Like one set of blue balls isn’t bad enough,” he groaned, “Come on, why don’t you just impale me again and put me outta my misery.”

“Like you weren’t turned on by that,” Lydia scoffed.

“I was, but I’m quickly losing my patience with delayed gratification Lydia,”

“Fine,” she leaned down by his hips, “Guess I need to gagged, don’t I?”

He started to respond but she silenced him with a single lick. That sweet silence didn’t last very long, however, as Lydia set to work finding out what would make _ him _ scream. But before she could bring him over the edge, he put a hand under her chin and raised her eyes to him,

“Enough with the opening act babes,” he told her, “Are you ready?”

Lydia licked her lips and swallowed past the lump in her throat, “Yes,” was her hoarse and breathy reply. Beetlejuice took hold of her hands and lead her until she was raised in position over him. One hand moved to her hip to help her guide him in. When they were flush against each other, he spoke again,

“It’s showtime,”

And inch by agonizing inch, they worked his way into her body. Slowly, torturously, until he was seated all the way inside her, and she sat flush against his hips. Lydia felt dizzy from the size and chill of what she clutched in her body. It certainly hadn’t felt like _ this _ with that nameless boy she’d let introduce her into this world. Between the angle, the size, and the temperature, this was certainly something strange and unusual. But that was what she _ liked _ about it. Beetlejuice was still, stiller than she’d ever seen him. She wanted to question if he was okay, but as she leaned forward so did his presence inside her, brushing up against one of her inner walls and stimulating the nerve endings there.

“Ah!” she gasped, scrambling for purchase against his chest and belly, “Beetle- Beej, I can’t. Help, move, _ now_!”

Her command seemed to snap him out of his stupor. With one of his hands still holding hers and the other set at her hips to help guide her he slowly encouraged her to raise up. But when she was as far up as she could go without them being disconnected his other hand took firm hold and quickly slammed her back down. Up, down, over and over again in a rough but temperate rhythm. Eventually, Lydia let him set the pace entirely, picking her up and putting her down, otherwise only enjoying the sensations as they came. The friction built faster, the tingling sensation, the waves of pleasure spread from her groin through her whole body. Higher and higher the cold heat stoked until it reached a pitch where her human body could no longer stand it. A sound escaped her, though whether it was a name or some incoherent animalistic babble she wasn’t sure. She felt her consciousness fully give out, only vaguely aware of a lower, hoarser shout from a short distance away that was cut short as she fell into oblivion.

The pair woke sometime later, with Lydia dozing against his chest and cradled in his arms. Sleepily, she snuggled closer and felt Beetlejuice’s chuckle rumble through his body,

“Feelin’ alright there babes?”

Lydia took stock of her situation. She felt sore, but a pleasant kind of sore as she concentrated on just _ which _ muscles ached. Lydia murmured sleepily, nuzzling back into her husband’s body and humming an affirmative.

“Gotta be honest, when I came to and you were still out I was a little worried I mighta killed ya,” he laughed, “But boy, what a way to go don’tcha think?”

“Beej, they call it a 'little death' for a reason,” Lydia argued without any malice, “Besides, I hardly think anyone in their entire life has ever been fucked to death, at least, no one without a heart problem,”

“You’ve clearly never talked to Michelangelo, or Oscar Wilde for that matter,” Beetlejuice said through a yawn, “And you think _ I’m _ a needy pervert,”

“Maybe so,” Lydia yawned too, “But you’re _ my _ needy pervert. Now, let’s go back to bed.”

When they once again woke, Lydia knew her time was up. For now. She would need to return home and dodge questions about where she had been and what had she been thinking going out in the middle of a storm like that? But she promised, she promised she would call on him again soon. That nothing would keep them apart, that neither of them would ever be invisible again. As she left his world, and the ancient dilapidated crypt, the early morning sky was clear and bright. The storm had passed along with the night. And as she ventured the road back home, Lydia finally felt she was no longer alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. Thanks for reading and I'll see you all next time


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